


After victory comes the fall

by i_claudia



Series: summer pornathon 2013 [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Summer Pornathon 2013, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You may yet save him,” Mordred had said, laying aside his sword. He had spoken of magic, of the sacred heat between two bodies, and Merlin had been wandering in the dark for long enough to hear the truth in it, to ignore the feeble warnings of his own heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After victory comes the fall

**Author's Note:**

> Summer Pornathon 2013. Challenge Three: Fuck or Die.
> 
> This fic, as hinted in the tags, is pretty damn dark. Mentions of canon character fatal injuries.

He thrust, and thrust again, eyes tight shut, all his being focused on finishing, on _ending it_ —

A hand wrapped around his chin, smooth fingers against the grain of his stubble. “Slowly,” Mordred whispered in his ear, an intimacy he'd never earned; “We must enjoy ourselves, or the magic is lost.”

Merlin opened his eyes, and though his breath came short, though his hips slowed and his shoulders shook with the strain of giving pleasure, his gaze spoke nothing but pain tempered and made steel by poisonous hate. 

“Reach further,” Mordred said, spread out heedlessly beneath him, a feast laid over blue sheets. His hands were languid as they stroked over Merlin's chest; his lips were red as he caught them between his teeth. “You hold too much back, Merlin. Release yourself.” 

Merlin bowed his head to the frissons sparking in his skin under Mordred's touch, and pushed deeper, Mordred's body folding easily around his own, pulling him further into slick heat. 

 

The fields had been frozen, after the fires of battle had died. Arthur's skin had been cold to match; his lips no longer able to hold the warmth Merlin pressed upon them in panicked desperation. 

“You may yet save him,” Mordred had said, laying aside his sword. He had spoken of magic, of the sacred heat between two bodies, and Merlin had been wandering in the dark for long enough to hear the truth in it, to ignore the feeble warnings of his own heart. 

 

Arthur lay beside them on the bed, near enough to touch, though Merlin could not bring himself to reach a hand out. He could not have said which fear held him back: that Arthur lay cold still, unchanged, or that he might wake to find Merlin lying spent in Mordred's arms. Merlin spread his knees, dug his fingers into Mordred's hair as an anchor while he gave his body up to the magic. It was growing between them, washing along their muscles as they groaned and thrust, slipping underneath their mingled sweat. The smell of it was sharp in the air, as copper as blood, at odds with the sweeter musk of sex, and as it lifted him up Merlin felt it dull his mind, wrapping him in a numbing shroud. Mordred's legs were locked hard around his waist, Mordred's body clenched hot and tight around his cock; Mordred's words and the nip of his teeth were on his lips—but Merlin felt none of it. Something had severed the very threads of him, and his broken ends flew free, out of his grasp even had he wished to reach for them.

 

“Close now,” Mordred gasped, and set his teeth in Merlin's shoulder, dragged his nails down Merlin's spine. “Can't you feel it, Merlin? Can you taste the power?” 

Merlin could, though he had closed his eyes and mouth against it. He could not pretend Mordred was anyone else—Arthur's scent, the confidence in his movements and the soft noises he made deep within his throat: those were utterly distinct—but his body was a traitor to the memories, calling them unbidden as it bore him over the crest. Mordred shuddered and shouted in his grasp, exultant, and the noise kept the sob in Merlin's chest a secret. The end, when it came, tore over him in a pitiless wave, sweeping his bones from him like water, and he offered everything he could bear in sacrifice, in foolish hope.

 

“Will he wake?”

Mordred did not pause. “You know the Old Magic,” he said, buckling on his sword in smooth, practiced movements. “You'll find out soon enough.”

Merlin did not watch him leave. Arthur lay sunken-cheeked beside him, senseless of the betrayal—for he would, when he woke, see it as nothing but the deepest sort of treason—and Merlin studied him, waiting for the change to come. He did not reach to trace a finger along the familiar curve of Arthur's nose, his jaw. A cold had settled into him: deep, relentless; he could not risk a touch to see if Arthur had warmed, for he did not know what he might do. 

He only watched, and waited.


End file.
